The Unrequited Love of Waiting Raven
by Netsie
Summary: Waiting Raven is determined to prove to his tribe and Brianna that he could fulfill his role as a good husband, regardless of Roger or her feelings, and will go to creative lengths to do so. (Alternate Universe)
1. Chapter 1: The Fire

I am writing this as exercise. I want to write my own novel and need the practice. Critique is welcome.

I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**Chapter one: The Fire**

A thick cloud of smoke hid the majority of the chaos from most everyone's eyes, which was the point. As men shouted and grabbed what water and blankets they had to douse and smother the fire, the offending arsonist took the opportunity to sneak around a wagon and toward his target.

Trying to quell the sudden anxiety attack he felt course through his body was difficult as he rounded the left rear wooden wheel; he always felt that way walking behind wagons after Culloden. He pushed the bad memory aside and tried to focus on the present; freeing the captives.

John Grey had been watching the camp for days, and with no way to convince anyone to help free the captives - vagabonds, most were considered - he had set it upon himself to free them alone.

There were two sets of captives: The first set was to the right of the camp, which held Brianna's husband Roger, and Jamie's grandson, Jem. There were four other people unknown to him, though he thought he recognized one of them as a wanted criminal.

He slid his knife free of its sheath and slowly made his way to the first set. Roger saw him approach, and stiffened. He moved as best he could to shield his son from him, expression grim as if to say _You will have the devil's own task touching him_.

It made him almost want to laugh, and he would have under less dire circumstances. He was dressed like the other Indians, but his skin was still white enough to stand out, or so he thought. Did Roger really not recognize him? He approached Roger cautiously, then moved behind him and cut his ropes.

"There are horses across the river, near the bend. Lead Jem out of here. I'll get your wife and the others out next."

Roger wanted to protest this man's instructions, and stay to free Brianna. But the little hand that grabbed his sleeve forced his silence. He had to get Jem to safety first. He grabbed his son and looked his rescuer in the eyes. They were a familiar blue hue, but he still couldn't place the identity.

"I'll come back once Jem's safe." He grabbed his rescuer's arm in thanks, and set off for the river with his son clutched tightly under one arm.

* * *

Something didn't feel quite right. The fire, the way everyone was so absorbed in smothering it, all of it felt wrong. Waiting Raven turned to eye the captives. He had been in charge of guarding them to ensure none escaped.

Waiting Raven could see his lover Rabid Fox - he named Brianna that - still tied with the others, her attention fixed on the fire like everyone else. He eased at the sight of her long red hair flowing behind her in response to the intense heat of the flames.

He looked to the right, to the direction of the other captives, and felt dread swell within him. Just as suspected, they were gone.

His knuckles tightened around the handle of his axe, and he circled around the camp carefully, his thoughts racing at hawk's speed. He saw no one out of the ordinary, so there couldn't be many. In fact, as he thought about it, he bet there were very few attackers, otherwise they wouldn't have needed a diversion.

So, the fire was a distraction because of poor numbers, and half the captives were released during the panic. What was the next step? Releasing the other set of captives, and Rabid Fox leaving him.

The thought made him want to vomit with rage and anxiety.

_What should I do?_ He could call to the others for help, but they needed to kill the fire. No, he could handle this on his own.

He crept behind a nearby bush, careful not to be seen, and waited. The imposters would come soon, he was sure of it, and he would be waiting for them.

He could hear the commotion of people behind him still fighting the fire, speaking in different native tongues while panicked and confusing one another as a result. A few of the women - some also outcast, others bought wives - shouted orders that fell on deaf ears. Young children hid behind their legs in fear of the fire.

Despite the excitement, his eyes never strayed from the captives. Movement soon caught his eye. Another native was slowly approaching the captives, and Rabid Fox.

So, he had noticed the others were gone, too? And he came to check on the rest?

He was about to call the other native over when he realized that something about this one wasn't quite right. He bit his tongue, and his heart began to beat quickly.

The imposter was covered head to toe in leather, a wolf mask, bone jewelry, fringe, stolen coats, the basic get-up of this camp. But his hands... his hands were a soft and pale, peachy-brown, not the reddish dark brown of his brethren.

_A Pale-skin._ And, he noticed, there was only one.


	2. Chapter 2: Failure

**Chapter Two: The Capture**

Claire had spotted the imposter long before anyone else did.

She watched as he casually walked into camp, grabbed a half-charred stick from the fire, and set a nearby pile of hay to blaze.

As well dressed as he was, he had blended into the background of the daily morning routine and no one was the wiser. When the smoke began to build, he was already gone and her captors were sufficiently distracted to allow him to maneuver into more risky territory.

She watched as he moved behind a wagon and set Roger, her grandson, and four other people free. She followed his movements as he crept around the perimeter of the camp, slowly making his way to where She, Jamie, and Brianna were tethered.

The thought of finally being freed had given her a strange headache as a bizarre response. _Perhaps it is too much adrenaline?_ As she observed her own body was trembling, she settled on that theory.

They had been at the camp for over three months as the Indians slowly sold off the captives one by one. Some captives were dragged screaming and kicking - mostly the younger ones - and the older walked with their heads down towards what they assumed was a bleak future.

Selling Jamie and Claire were more difficult due to their age, which was the only reason they remained still. Though Jamie's back was still straight and strong, no one could deny he was older, and getting older. His price was too high for the limited years he could promise.

Claire was already past child-bearing age and offered little in brute strength, and this particular band of rogue Indians employed a shaman to cure their ill. He was a poor doctor, but they felt they had no need for another.

As such, she had three potential buyers argue over her price, and ultimately back out. It was only pure luck that neither Roger nor Jem had been sold, but it was only a matter of time before they were. Now, she didn't have to worry about that grim scenario. The _other_ grim scenario had already happened, and as agonizing and humiliating as it was, there was no more fear left.

Brianna had been partially purchased already. One of the tribesmen, Waiting Raven, had been slowly depositing money into the pockets of their dealers. To Jamie and Claire's horror, he had begun taking his rightful liberty of his partially acquired wife. Without fully paying her off, she had to remain with the others and was granted no privacy. Witnessing Waiting Raven's passions is what had granted Jamie the name 'Vicious.'

Their daughter had retreated into a shell, spoke little, and avoided eye contact. She reserved any energy she had towards Waiting Raven's numerous attempts at wooing her. Once, Waiting Raven referred to her as Rabid Fox when she bit him in the arm, sinking her teeth deeply into his flesh. He had struck her to get her to release him.

"I hope it gets infected, you asshole." Was the last thing she had said to him.

Now Brianna had as clear a view as her mother did, and the sight of her husband and son's release renewed her. Claire saw the soot-stained tear tracks running down her cheeks and tried to smile at her, but found the handkerchief that was shoved into her mouth the night before prevented her.

The arsonist had disappeared behind nearby deer skins and out of their view. It wouldn't be long before they were free.

Waiting Raven had been careful not to be seen by the imposter. Each agonizing step he made was carefully thought out and well placed, getting him ever closer to Rabid Fox's would-be kidnapper.

Despite the desire to run over and bludgeon the man to death, he kept his slow approach gradual. The thought of a swift and violent death was tempting Waiting Raven to the point that his hands shook with blood lust. The body was willing, but the spirit wanted more than instant fleeting gratification. He wanted to see the man sorry.

He wanted to take his time with anyone who would so callously strip him away of any chance he had of starting a family. He didn't deserve Rabid Fox; He would probably sell her to another tribe for a few guinea, and then where would she be? Abused and at the mercy of a stranger? Starved and worked to death? _No, no. She is safer with me!_

His heart skipped a beat as he saw his patience paying off, as close and quiet as he was; the imposter hadn't noticed his approach. He had flanked him behind a tanning skin stretched over a wooden frame. Even Vicious, Rabid Fox's father, hadn't taken notice of his stealthy approach.

His skin began to prickle with goosebumps at the thought of being in such close proximity to Vicious, who was feet away from a tanning skin. The man was as his name described: He needed no other description than that, not wolf, not bear. The pure embodiment of all things vicious needed no watering down. Some even whispered he was a demon. As a result, all stayed away from him, and looking at the red-headed man, Waiting Raven knew precisely how Rabid Fox had obtained Rabid. Vicious had given it to her.

* * *

The air was thick with the smell of burning wood, hay, blankets and horse manure. The smells had mixed together to make a stomach-turning aroma and for a moment he felt like vomiting.

As Grey approached the tanning skins, another scent filled his nostrils - urine, so strong it burned his nose more than the smoke did. He breathed through his mouth to quiet his stomach, as it would do him no good to fall sick now of all times.

He peered through the thick smoke to see the Indians were still distracted with the fire, which was almost extinguished. I'll have to act fast. There's not much time left!

He spotted Claire first, her gold eyes wide with interest. She didn't seem surprised to see him at all, and he came to the sudden realization that she had been watching him for quite some time.

She nodded her head and grunted quietly in acknowledgment of his presence - she had a handkerchief tied around her mouth, and his lip twitched at the thought of why it was placed there.

Jamie turned to look at his rescuer, and deep blue met light blue. A heavy thumping in his chest began, and soon it was skipping beats as well that made him feel light-headed. Mixed with the stench and the intimate eye-contact, he thought he would surely throw up his own heart.

And just like with Roger, there was no recognition in Jamie's eyes. His beautiful red-lashed eyes lowered and his eyes set on his rescuer's blade. He understood his purpose for coming. A silent agreement between them._ Do what you came here to do. I will help._

He rounded behind Jamie to free him of the tree he had been tied to, just as Claire began to scream in alarm through the handkerchief. A feeling of electricity rose in the air that instantly made the back of Grey's hair stand on end. Jamie's head reeled back, attempting to dodge a dangerously close axe, and the flat side collided across Grey's face that made his nose crack and sparked his vision.

His world tipped sideways, and soon all he could smell was urine, rich earth, and blood.

* * *

Waiting Raven had successfully spared the man's life at the cost of his nose. He reached behind the imposter's wolf skin mask and wool coat, and grabbing a handful of long hair, began to drag him from Vicious' feet and Rabid Fox's view. The Witch looked horrified; perhaps she knew him? He decided to not dwell on such minutiae and looked to his Red-headed beauty.

"I will not let anyone harm you!" He shouted so passionately he forgot he was speaking in his own tongue, "Do you see that you're safe with me? Have I convinced you I am not evil?"

Brianna couldn't resist the sneer that crept across her face at the man who was now dragging her rescuer away. God only knew what he was saying to her, not that she cared. She was trembling - not from fear, but from the sudden loss of hope of escape and toxic rage.

She exhaled through her nose and let the anger take her completely. She was suddenly aware that she was hissing words of venom at him - she didn't know precisely _what_ she was saying to him, but he had paled remarkably, then waved a dismissive hand and continued to drag the unconscious man away from camp.

Claire had noticed a small puddle of blood was soaking into the dirt - some of it older and some bright and fresh, alleviating her concern that her rescuer may have been killed. Dead bodies don't bleed.


	3. Chapter 3: Bound

**Chapter 3: Bound**

By the time Roger had returned to the camp, the captives had been moved nearer the center that made sneaking into the camp the same way impossible. He had scanned for his friend along the perimeter of the camp and found no evidence of him. Either he turned tail and ran, or he was caught.

If the latter were true, surely he would have been tied with the others? Or killed outright. Regardless of which was more likely to have occurred, Roger found himself unable to help free his wife.

"Fuck!" He cursed under his breath, punching the earth with his fist.

Now the camp was on high alert, and Roger could see no way he was going to free his wife or her family just yet. He slowly crept backwards in an effort for a stealthy retreat. He had to deny every fiber of his body from running into the camp and wrenching Brianna free.

The sensation of eyes staring into him made goosebumps ripple across his hide. He looked to the center of the camp and saw his wife looking back at him. She had seen him begin his retreat.

'I love you.' He mouthed silently to her. 'I'll come back.'

Brianna looked down and her vision blurred with tears. She didn't want anyone to notice who she had been looking at.

_For god's sake, Roger. Be careful!_

* * *

Waiting Raven finished tying his captive's hands to a dead tree a mile and a half from camp. His captive was still unconscious, the blow to the head having been maybe an hour ago. For such a short man, he was heavy as a pile of rocks, and Waiting Raven rolled his neck and massaged one shoulder in exhaustion. Just what the hell he was going to do with this imposter now?

He had considered dragging his carcass to the chief and announcing his victory in catching their would-be attacker; since such a feat would at least gain him some measure of respect with his new tribe. He then thought the better of it.

The chief didn't hate Waiting Raven per se, but he had little faith in his ability to perform menial tasks properly. Guarding the captives was his first big responsibility, and he failed.

Even if Waiting Raven had brought the imposter to him, the chief would ask questions: like why he didn't prevent the captives' release? Why didn't he see the imposter coming before the fire started?

The truth was, he was admiring a heavily beaded dress he wanted to buy for Rabid Fox. (The turquoise reminded him of her beautiful eyes.) Losing six people because he was daydreaming about his new wife would negate any admiration he would receive in capturing their arsonist. He could even lose Rabid Fox if the chief wanted to make up for the money lost.

The six captives were an expensive lot. They represented half a year's worth of income. Income to pay for food, clothes and ammunition. Now they had to rely on selling Vicious and the Witch. Good luck with _that_.

He eyed the imposter critically, like a cattle rancher fancying a heiffer. He could see the unconscious man had good musculature for his size and was still in his prime. It was a shame he couldn't just keep him as his personal slave.

He had planned on leaving the tribe with Rabid Fox eventually - he hated that place - once she realized he wasn't going to hurt her. Having a slave about would make living easier. But the blond man didn't strike him as the obedient type, and letting him loose to work chores would be either very foolish or downright suicidal.

He cocked his head to the side, observing the man's features. He had torn the wolf mask off him before he tied him to the tree. He was amazed at how feminine he looked. He had a thick head of wavy long hair, huge eyes, thick lashes like a girl, and a well proportioned nose and mouth and a strong-set jaw.

He knew of a few men who would be interested in buying him for their own sordid pleasures, as disgusting a thought as it was. He could finish paying off Rabid Fox with the money he'd bring. He made a crooked smile at the thought. Yes, that would probably be best.

If he could clean him up a bit, he could bring him to the hunting brothers who lived across the river. The tribe wouldn't be the wiser, and he'd have his Rabid Fox. Two birds with one stone.

The pounding in Grey's skull was what had partially roused him from the dark void of unconsciousness. The sound of someone cutting a rope was the other. He groaned and tried to sit up, but found his arms had been efficiently tied above his head. He reluctantly opened his eyes.

"Aah!" He shut them tightly from the bright onslaught of sunshine that made the pounding increase. He heard shuffling to his right, and slowly peeked through his lashes.

Dark and suspicious eyes met his startled light blue. The Indian raised his nose at him in an almost regal manner, then snorted. Whatever he had been cutting gave way, and the pressure on his scalp he hadn't noticed was there released.

Grey realized it wasn't a rope being cut that had roused him: it was his hair. His hair had been braided tightly while he was out, and now it had been cut with a blade near the base of his skull.

The Indian stood above him and began to brush the knife clean of Grey's short stray hair with his two fingers. In the other three hung his pride.

"I am Waiting Raven," He introduced himself calmly. "You tried to take my wife." His eyes narrowed. "I _should_ kill you for that."

The pounding in John's head increased with the ever quickening beat of his heart. Take his wife? Whatever the bloody hell was he talking about? "_Who?_"

"Rabid Fox is my wife, and I should have killed you for trying to take her." He brushed his breech clout to the side, and grabbed his flaccid penis. "But you will make me a lot of money. So I will take back my honor another way."

Grey realized his intention, and shut his eyes and mouth tightly and tried to bury his face in his shoulder for what was to come. As a stream of piss landed on his chest and splashed droplets across his cheek, with his hair now cut short it helped shield the majority of his face from the dishonor.

The stream trailed off, and he heard a satisfied huff from Waiting Raven as he returned his breech clout to its normal position. He spun on his heal and walked away, with Grey's butter-blond braid clutched tightly in his right hand.

* * *

Claire's handkerchief was removed when they were relocated, and she enjoyed her freedom of speech, and regardless of her current living conditions, she was thankful of being closer to the cooking fire and its nightly warmth. Her sense of smell was returning quickly in the absence of the strong ammonia used to tan the hides.

Jamie stretched his long legs outward in an attempt to rid himself of the pins and needles from hours of sitting cross-legged in the dirt brought. He began to relax his body as his mind analyzed the possibilities that followed Roger's sudden release. _If I ken my son-in-law, he'll return with more than one man to either rush the camp at night. But the nearest town is several days away. Getting there and back would be at least a week if not more. Or-_ His thoughts were interrupted by shouting.

He looked across the fire at the chief, who was red-faced and shouting at Waiting Raven, who through clenched teeth was hissing something in reply. He reached into a pouch he carried on his breech clout and pulled out what looked like yellow rope. He gripped it tightly and shouted back, and a crowd began to circle him.

Jamie was instantly reminded of the campfire stories he shared almost a decade earlier when he killed a bear. There was passion in Waiting Raven's words as he described with both words and hands how he fell the interloper, Jamie thought, as he watched not just the chief but other men nod in shocked awe. He was too far away to hear anything specific, not that it mattered with the mish-mash of different languages.

He saw the chief take the thick braid of hair (Jamie realized what it was with his grim logical assumption and nothing else) and analyze it suspiciously. He didn't seem fully convinced of the other Indian's story, but handed it back to him. He asked a question, and Waiting Raven pointed toward the river.

_Queer,_ Jamie thought, _that was the opposite direction I saw Waiting Raven drag him. And why didn't he simply show them the body? Why bother dragging it away first to display a braid later?_

"What are they saying?" Claire asked, leaning forward to see more clearly through the cooking fire.

"I dinna ken all that they are saying, but the _Pol Thoin_ claims he killed our friend, and the chief doesna look verra convinced."

Claire's brows creased in question, and Jamie read her expression. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Aye, I was wondering the same thing, Sassenach."

"Why wouldn't he just show them his body? Why bring back just the braid?"

Brianna was sitting a full ten feet behind them.

Jamie turned to look at Brianna and smiled in pride. "You," He said accusingly, "Ha' the eyes of a hawk."

She smiled back at her father. Movement caught her eye and the smile quickly transformed into a sneer. He turned to see Waiting Raven was approaching them.

Waiting Raven stopped a foot away from Jamie and smugly swung the braid in front of him before he purposefully dropped it. He had intended it to land in between Jamie's legs, but the cool evening breeze had caught it as it fell, landing at the bridge of his foot instead.

"Do you know him?" He asked, carefully wording his question in what English he knew, and pointed at the braid that lay draped across his foot.

Jamie kicked it off in disgust, as if it were a severed body part.

"I'm supposed to tell by a lock of hair?" He knew plenty of blonds; it could be any one of them, granted he didn't know any daft enough to attempt a one-manned rescue.

Waiting Raven looked to The Witch next, who was clearly displaying an impressive array of goosebumps on her porcelain skin.

"Do _you_?"

"I don't."

He found Claire was easy to read. If she had been lying, he would have been able to tell. He saw shock, but no lies. He looked back to Jamie. Claire was telling the truth; Jamie however may not be.

"In case you are lying, Vicious; He is dead."

He looked toward Brianna, his eyes softening at the sight of her. He rounded Jamie and kneeled before her and reached his hand out to cup her face. She jerked her head away as she always did -_ still playing coy,_ he figured.

"I protect you," He gestured to the braid that now lay curled at the base of tent, "I feed you. Why do you fight?"

She clenched her jaw and remained silent. The last time she replied, he hit her. As much as she desired nothing more than to spit on him, she didn't need to lose teeth over it. He sat on his heels with the look of complete exhaustion and heartbreak.

"Minerva spoke with you." He bit his lower lip in a rare display of timidness and shook his head. "She is wrong. I will prove it."

* * *

Grey could feel the aromatic liquid sinking through his clothes and dampening his chest. He tried to break his bonds with sheer force, but they only stretched marginally and not nearly enough to break.

Perhaps Roger would come across him? He said he would return once he found Jem safe. Hopefully, the man wouldn't rush the camp now that Grey wasn't there to help.

Rather than attempt brute strength again, he tried to wring his hands free, but only managed to pop something in his wrist. There was no getting out of this without help.

He relaxed his arms, the warmth of the urine fading and cold now beginning set in. He would have to lay there and wait.

_Well,_ he thought, _at least I'm not scalped._


	4. Chapter 4: Minerva

**Chapter 4: Minerva**

It was raining, and Grey was still tied to the tree. An entire day had passed by without sight of Waiting Raven, and he began to wonder if he was ever planning to return.

It would be a cruel thing indeed to leave a man to wither from exposure, but it wasn't unheard of or even uncommon. And he was definitely feeling the effects of the elements.

On one hand, the rain was cool and made his entire body shiver whenever the wind blew. On the other hand, it kept the flies away and washed the piss off his clothing. Of course by this time not all of it was Waiting Raven's. He had lost the fight to contain his own function as the night carried on, and now he found both mother nature a blessing and curse.

He stuck his tongue out, anxious to catch a few raindrops on his tongue. He had no source of water since he approached the camp, and he was dreadfully thirsty.

The tree he was tied to was leafless, and several branches were now mere skeletons of what they once were. They pointed to the earth from the weight of the water, which allowed large, heavy drops to accumulate and run downwards, occasionally landing on his face. At first it only ever landed in his eye. A few hours of that almost drove him completely mad. But with time and effort, he managed to position himself so that it landed near his mouth.

He caught another large droplet on his tongue and swallowed. He stuck his tongue out again, positioning it just so that made him confident he would catch the next one perfectly.

It missed his tongue and landed at the back of his throat, making him cough. Another one hit his upper lip, and he licked it off. It was a woefully inefficient way to drink, but he had to make do.

With the setting sun, tree frogs began to crawl from their hiding places and sing their praises of the wet day, As thirsty as he was, he was ready to sing its praises, too.

With his inability to move anything but his legs, a nearby tree frog found security in his immobile body and climbed up his side and sat in the middle of his chest. It was gray and heavily mottled with orange inner legs. It blinked heavily as one large raindrop landed square on top of its head.

"Oh, hallo," He said gently, thankful for the distraction. It licked one large dark bulbous eyeball in greeting, then began its ascent towards his chin. He shuffled his jaw back and forth to scare it off, but it continued its journey until it rested across his nose and mouth and threatened to suffocate him.

With one heavy blow on its cool fleshy belly, it fell off his face and clung to his cheek. He took in a deep breath and wiggled his now itchy nose. The dried blood was bad enough; the frog only made the itchiness worse.

He spotted another frog climb across his thigh and croak. He spotted another making its way atop the toe of his stolen moccasin.

_Bloody frogs._

* * *

"Da, I'm hungry!" Jem cried and wriggled in his father's grasp. Roger shifted on the horse to rebalnce himself.

"We'll eat soon," he lied and looked at the dimming horizon with concern. He didn't know where he was going or where the nearest town was. He had no tools with which to fish, and the only batch of mushrooms may or may not have been edible. _When in doubt throw it out_, was a popular phrase among mushroom enthusiasts.

When he had been taken hostage with the others, they had been tied together and walked for what felt like a week. He had tried his best to remember any unusual markers they passed on their way to the Indian camp, but odd trees and rocks began to blend together as days passed on until he couldn't rely on his memory to serve him well. The only marker he remembered clearly was the Mohawk river.

They had been herded across a shallow stretch of the river, where he was at it now, but didn't know if he should head north or south, or even how many days it would take to reach a town on horseback compared to on foot. He looked to his left upstream, then to his right downstream.

Jem had begun to calm down. He leaned against his father's back sleepily and only began to doze, wiggling uncomfortably only when a hunger pang hit that roused him. Roger rested his head on his son's head, messing the ruddy rat's nest affectionately.

A Native couple had been admiring Jem, and came to the camp twice to haggle for his price. They eventually bought a Native boy who had been orphaned, and Roger whispered a prayer of thanks. He had come too close to losing him forever.

He squeezed his thighs to direct the horse forward, who obliged and begun to cross the shallow river bank. He appreciated a well-trained horse, and wondered whose it belonged to, and if he was all right. He whispered another prayer for the safety of his rescuer, and headed west.

* * *

Jamie wasn't usually one to pry in other people's business. He disliked gossip as much as telling it, but given his current circumstance he could fall victim to its whimsical charms, through an attempt at manipulation, boredom, or both. _Idle hands are the devil's workshop_, and Jamie was certain it applied to minds just as well.

Most of the tribe wouldn't speak to him out of simple fear. They had thought him a demon and called him 'Vicious' and applied it as if it were his name.

The woman who regularly gutted fish for supper was the only one who didn't seem to care being near him when she took to her chores. She knew English enough - Jamie had suspected her a mixed breed, not only due to her appearance but also lack of fear. So when she was almost finished with the last of the day's catch, Jamie took the opportunity to speak with her.

"Are ye the one they call Minerva?"

She looked up suddenly at the sound of Jamie's voice, and lost grip of the pot that held the undesirable fish guts, spilling its contents onto her skirt. A flurry of curse words followed the aromatic stench as it soaked into the trampled earth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didna mean to startle ye."

She peered up at him with an understanding eye, then back down at her skirt.

"I jutht wathed it!" She let out a heavy sigh and bent to pick up the pot. "I am Minerva. You need thomething?" She curled her upper lip at him enough it exposed two missing front teeth, the source of her heavy lisp.

"I understand ye ken Waiting Raven, and are in disagreement?"

A sudden, loud laugh erupted from her frail frame. Despite her two missing front teeth, she was abnormally beautiful, long-faced and smiled easily.

"He wath my huthband. Why?"

"He mentioned ye last night."

"Oh?"

"I'm not keen on the particulars but he was convinced ye were wrong."

She laughed again, setting down the pot to pick up the gutting knife. "He can thay what he wantth. It'th thtill not true."

"May I ask what it's regarding?"

She said something in her native tongue, waiving her hand. She caught Jamie's expression and lack of understanding, and fought for different words.

"He wath a bad huthband. There were no babieth. He thay it'th my fault. I thay it'th hith fault. Tho I thend him away and have a new huthband. He ith angry with me." She shrugged helplessly. Claire cleared her throat.

"You're right, you know."

Minerva glanced at her with a brow quirked. "Of courthe I am." She said with certainty, then paused. "How do you know?"

Claire hesitated in saying just_ how_ she knew; When he first undressed and raped Brianna, his condition became evidently clear. She had recognized his vaguely feminine features as not a natural physical variant between men but a genetic disorder. He carried most of the symptoms, though not all, and now with this new information coming to light, if she had been uncertain before, she was convinced now.

"He has a disease. It's called Klinefelter's Syndrome." She looked down, again sparing the details. "It prevents him from having children."

When Brianna had first voiced her concern of a possible pregnancy, Claire had no such fear. She hadn't delved into the details then either, but had practically promised Brianna that she needn't fear another repeat of the days of Stephen Bonnet. It wasn't a gamble, but hearing from his ex-wife made everything the more concrete.

Minerva suddenly looked down and shook her head as if a heavy burden had been removed from her shoulders. It was clear to Jamie now that she had questioned her decision to divorce her husband.  
She took in a deep breath and looked back up at Claire. "Thank you." She wiped her eyes of tears. "I feared it really wath me." And with that she walked away, lighter than she was before.


	5. Chapter 5: Revelation

**Chapter 5: A Cruel Revelation**

Grey's captor eventually returned with water and food after the venomous snake left.

It had been attracted by the frogs and his body heat. It had curled up around itself, comfortable nestled next to his side for the night, leaving Grey sleepless and strung as tight as piano wire.

After swallowing one of his amphibious friends whole in the early morning hours, it left in search of a warmer roost with the rising sun, leaving Grey to doze in a mildly more-relaxed state.

He woke when Waiting Raven raised a freshly mixed mound of pemmican to his lips. He accepted it reluctantly and drank greedily. When both food and water was depleted he cleared his throat.

"I wondered if you were planning to leave me to wither in the elements," He tried to cock his head to the side, but was prevented by his own shoulders. "I take it I was wrong?"

Waiting Raven chuckled. "No. I will sell you..." He trailed off as he pulled out a dampened cloth from his leather pouch and began to wipe Grey's old-blood encrusted face. "...Soon." He returned the cloth to his pouch.

Grey opened his mouth, then seeing the Indian's eyebrows rise in interest, he shut it. He felt the urge to correct him on his assumptions about kidnapping his wife, but thought the better of it. Being sold was a better scenario than being beaten by an angry husband, regardless of whether it was true or not.

Waiting Raven sat before him for what seemed like a long time, studying his features and clothing. He reached a hand out to admire his moccasins and coat.

"Do you intend to sell the clothes off my back as well and leave me naked?" He had seen slaves sold at Charleston dressed in nothing but the skin they were born with, and felt soon he would know exactly how that feels. He imagined himself paraded in front of a group of Indians, and didn't like it.

A crooked smile spread across the Indian's handsome face. "Maybe." He patted Grey on the cheek in a condescending manner and left.

He could hear his footsteps grow more quiet with the distance until he only heard the wind through the trees.

* * *

Jamie shifted and stifled a grunt. The ache between his legs was unbearable, and moving his thighs left to right didn't do enough to reduce the pain of celibacy he felt. If Claire hadn't alleviated his fears years ago, he would have assumed they would surely burst.

Now he was beginning to dream about Claire like he had in the Cave, at Ardsmuir and at Helwater. He would wake up stiff and desperate, but he hadn't the freedom now to finish himself. He had to cope, and that wasn't something he was used to.

More than once Claire caught him staring longingly at the apex between her legs, (covered by her dress and thankfully unmolested) and she offered him a knowing, sad smile. She yearned for his touch as much as he did yearned for hers, and no amount of loving looks would satisfy either of them.

He wanted to hold her in his arms and stroke her light brown hair, to kiss her proper and bed her. Instead he had to resort to loving glances and soft words. It wasn't enough.

He also felt helpless and angry, worthless. He knew better, but it didn't change how he felt. He failed to protect them, and now his daughter was paying the price of that failure. Claire didn't express any anger towards him, but he suspected it was there, just bubbling below the surface.

He knew Claire would object and insist he had no way to see it coming. To know they would attack. But damn it, he had sworn an oath to her that he would protect her with his body, and he couldn't. That knowledge ate away at him, and there was nothing - absolutely nothing - he could do about it.

Nothing but wait and pray for a miracle.

* * *

After a long night of mosquitos and a fussy, hungry toddler, Roger followed a day's length of the river westward until he came upon a fur trapper, who offered him and his son a healthy portion of freshly cooked beaver and directions to his town. It was a day's ride north along a very small trail that was overgrown with long grasses and overhanging tree branches. Roger had to lean forward nearly the entire time that made his back and abs sore.

When he arrived at the town, he found the it was little more than log sheds facing each other in a single row, a couple outhouses and a single muddy road. Trappertown the locals called it, and clearly it was seasonal lodgings for those trying to cash in on nature's bounty while the weather was good.

The foundation of every shack was rotted and rotting as the river flooded the town every winter, but in the still-warm season of very early autumn, it provided the necessary staples of shelter. When it was no longer liveable, likely they would abandon and rebuild elsewhere.

The hunters were primarily after the fur of beavers to turn a quick profit, but they shared the meat of their catch with each other. The meat was naturally tough, so it was boiled for hours over a cook fire in the center of the little town until its meat was as tender as any mignon, where Roger and Jem were welcome to eat for free. For the first time in months, they had full bellies and a warm place to sleep for the night.

Roger had explained his predicament to the hunters, but the request for help was denied with a question over his willingness to live; they had thought him to be suicidal in his desire to return for Brianna.

So the next morning he set eastward again, careful to follow the directions the fur hunters gave him for reaching the nearest, official town.

* * *

Waiting Raven sat next to Rabid Fox, who leaned away from him instinctively.

Ignoring her standoffish body language, he unrolled the contents he held in his hand and smiled proudly.

It was the beaded dress he had been admiring, the one with turquoise and bone beads. It didn't have as much fringe as he'd like, but it would have to do. He looked to his wife, his smile widening.

She was staring at it, stiff-shouldered and sporting an almost disgusted frown. She hated it.

His smile faded at the sight of her displeasure. He felt like a child who had done something wrong to disappoint his father. Of course! He mentally kicked himself. Of course she would prefer a white woman's dress instead of this. It was too different for her. Perhaps he could return it and get most of his money back and bring her something more like her.

He leaned forward to kiss her, then hesitated. Her eyes widened in recognition of what he was trying to do, but kept still - not that she could go anywhere, tied as she was. He moved in swiftly and planted his lips on hers in a kiss.

She bit him.

"Augh!" He pulled back with a frown. Angry, he rolled up the dress and retreated, stomping.

Try to bed a fox...

He licked the side of his lip, investigating the bite Rabid Fox left when he tried to kiss her just moments before. It was deep and bled freely, and he knew would get a canker sore from it later.

Kissing was a white man's way of showing affection and not something his birth tribe cared for. He adopted it for his new wife's sake, but now he was considering abandoning that method. It was too damn risky with her.

The ummistakable voice of his first wife rang from the darkness behind him.

"Why do you torture her?"

His resisted a sneer. He turned to face her and clenched his fist. "What I do with my wife is none of your business." He answered in his native tongue. She laughed. It was a cruel, joyless sound.

"Pointleth. She hateth you. You should thtop."

"I will have a son."

"Never." She was going to add that he needed to move on, but he interrupted her.

"You don't know that!" He hissed and hunched his shoulders, turning back around to walk away.

"There are plenty young in need of a father. Mutht one be from your cock to love it?" The word _cock_ was expressed with unspoken disgust, Waiting Raven could sense it. He twirled around and thrust his fist forward. It missed her face by mere inches and struck the bark of a tree. He resisted the urge to curse and withdraw his now throbbing hand. A horse nearby backed away and whinnied in startlement.

"Yes!" He shouted, not breaking eye contact from her. He could see she was afraid. She seemed so confident and fearless on the surface, but years of marriage allowed him to perceive that which most didn't. "I am not the one with the problem! Where are _your_ babies? Or does your husband have a problem, too?"

He had attracted an audience, and noticed Minerva's husband quickly approaching with a flintlock. He receded from her to avoid another altercation with her new husband. It had happened more than once with him as the losing party. He wasn't interested in another humiliating defeat.

"Leave her alone, Raven." Growled her husband in warning. He snorted at him, fully aware the flintlock wasn't operational. "I won't have you threatening my wife, and our child, anymore. If you come near her, I will kill you."

His blood ran cold.

_Child?_ His eyes darted to her, as she laid an advertising hand to her stomach. Now he saw something else in her eyes: triumph. Victory. A briar patch of toxic shame and jealousy quickly took root within. He said nothing, but his eyes said everything. _So it's true, then. It is me. I was the bad husband all along._

He backed away slowly at first, feeling the accusing eyes of the few who gathered round to watch. He then quickened his pace as he fled, eager to be rid of their accusing glances. He felt naked and exposed.

If he were a dog, his tail would have been between his legs.


	6. Chapter 6: Solution

Chapter 6: Answer

_Childless. Sterile. A bad husband._

Waiting Raven inhaled deeply before taking another gulp of whiskey. He rested his head in his hand and tried to rub his eyes in an effort to alleviate the fuzzy feeling in his head.

He barely slept last night and hadn't eaten since dawn. Now it was night. He couldn't bring himself to sit with the others, and he gave all his pemmican to the Imposter before.

He was hungry, but he needed distance and time to think, to cool off, and he needed privacy to brood if he needed to.

Besides, he didn't like the feeling of being out of control in front of people. And he badly needed something to dull the sharpness of the new feelings welling within him.

Minerva's husband had revealed an identity-altering fact to him, and he hadn't been prepared for how that would affect him and how he viewed himself as a person. He took another swig, knowing he should stop soon before he got too drunk. He only had a few gulps thus far, but already felt its effects.

He didn't drink often, so his tolerance was mediocre at best, which had always attracted cruel jokes from other men at his perceived femininity, and his empty stomach only made him more tipsy than he should have been. The hard alcohol mixed with the acid in his stomach, which caused an even more hungry, burning sensation in his core.

He could hear Minerva's laugh emerge from the fire far behind him, and he told himself this would be the last sip.

It was a jovial sound too, and he stole a glance over his shoulder at her. He saw her husband chasing her with a long stalk of grass, tickling as she tried to get away. She looked so happy, and long ago that was him making her smile.

_Child._

He felt a nauseating hatred rise in the back of his throat and looked away. He swallowed and enjoyed the burn in his nose from the gold liquid. Okay, this would be the last one.

_That hypocrite!_ She threw away their happiness in search of a replacement for him when he didn't provide what she wanted. Was fertility really so important a factor in being a good husband? He resisted throwing the leather flask as far as he could.

She talked about him giving up and adopting, and yet she was the one who sent him away instead of following her own advice! What about her? Wasn't she a bad wife for giving up on him? Did their time together mean nothing?

He tried to find happiness again by following her example, but women talk about things they shouldn't, and none of the other women wanted him for his perceived sterility. It was almost as if the bitch wanted him to stay unhappy.

He held his breath and shut his eyes tightly as he swallowed more whiskey - okay, this really was the last one - But she didn't plan on Rabid Fox. And that he'd have the determination to work hard to pay for her.

He admitted he wasn't as hard a worker like the others, he didn't make as much money, but money wasn't everything. He remembered a time when they didn't use money at all. Minerva hated that about him, traditional as he was.

But she couldn't help being different. She was half white and adopted the white concepts like it was her own, and in a way it was. But he tried to do what she wanted despite his protests, and in the end it wasn't enough. But people change, and he changed. Was it jealousy, then, that drove Minerva to ruin his new relationship?

Minerva notified Rabid Fox of his inefficiency when he wasn't looking. He had no proof, but she had to have - why else would Rabid Fox resist him so much? He had known other men who bought their wives from white men, and none were so combative as her. Or beautiful, he added as an afterthought.

He took one somber look at Rabid Fox from across camp, with her beautiful blue eyes, long red hair and full, soft lips, and felt his heart break. Would this also end the same way? A weak relationship judged solely by his fertility?

Should he even bother to continue trying with her? With how hard she fought him, it was as if she knew from the beginning. Knew his secret. His shame.

He refused to perceive it at first, telling himself she was playing hard to get and she would love him, with time, and when the babies came she would be too busy to miss her old life. When he first made the deal to buy her, he had followed her cycle with renewed hope for the future.

He was convinced, then, that Minerva was the problem and not him. A part of him was so eager to prove to Minerva that she was wrong about him, and then she could be the one to feel the sting of jealousy instead of him for a change. He supposed he never really let his first wife go.

He glanced up at the starry night sky. The moon was a quarter crescent, which meant he should try with Rabid Fox again. He pressed his lips together, feeling the sting of her bite. She was aptly named. He felt a heavy depression settle on him like a blanket.

Maybe Minerva was right: maybe he should give up, finish paying her off and send her away. Even if she didn't deserve to be sent away, he didn't want her to go through the same thing that his first wife had. Was it right for him to doom her to a childless future.

He spent several minutes in a brooding, miserable and lonely silence, slowly accepting the ugly and uncomfortable solution he was coming to.

He wouldn't dare sell her to someone who could beat her. She deserved more than that. Maybe he would buy her freedom, send her away in secret, and never see her again. His throat grew sore at the thought. Maybe that was best.

Losing Rabid Fox would be the hardest thing he would ever have to experience, with the exception of losing Minerva. But Rabid Fox deserved better. He shut his eyes tightly and inhaled deeply, trying to calm the storm of emotions he felt. He didn't want to let her go. But he had to do something. To continue this way was madness.

If only he could find a way to be a good husband to her some other way. If only he could find a way to fix his problem. If only...

_Does it have to be from your cock to love it._ Minerva's harsh words echoed in his memory. He had told her yes. He stood by that then, and he stood by it even now.

_From your cock._ She sounded so offended by his appendage when she asked that. As if it was somehow inadequate now. There were smaller men within this band of rogues he called a tribe, her current husband included.

_From your cock._ She had never made any objections about it until she sent him away.

He lifted the flask to his lips for his last sip when something clicked behind his eyes. He dropped  
it as a streak of realization ran through him. It was as if the trickster Coyote himself dropped the seed of possibility in his lap. Beautiful and small, and from it sprout a tree of hope. _It's yours if you take it._

His jaw hung slack for a moment, his back straight and stiff, startled by his idea's simplicity. His vision temporarily blurred with his mild intoxication.

_Could it really be this simple._ He rose to his feet, his spirits renewed.

_Do I really have the solution?_ He grabbed the flask and made his way farther from the camp at a slow trot.

_Is the answer to my problem within my grasp?_ He recoiled momentarily at the stark reality of his last thought, but recovered. Never he mind that, it would be worth it if it meant Rabid Fox would stay with him.

_I can provide!_ He wiped the whiskey from his lips. _I can still be a good husband._


	7. Chapter 7: Deceit

**Chapter 7: Deceit**

There was a canine at the edge of the clearing.

He felt a little fear seeing it for the first time earlier that morning. He had thought a pack of wolves had discovered him, but soon realized it was alone, and it hadn't noticed him.

It had been scouting the perimeter nearly the entire morning. At one point it had found what Grey assumed was a small rodent. Satisfied with its catch, it had left with the furry carcass in its mouth, tail swaying with each step the animal took.

Grey was a little surprised it _hadn't_ smelled him - He had been left to his own vices for days now, and without the courtesy of relief or relocation, he had been forced to accept he would have to defecate where he was. The scant meals Waiting Raven provided him helped slow his bodily functions, but it did not stop them altogether. At some point he couldn't smell himself anymore.

But it was night now, and the animal was back. He knew it was the very same from earlier since half its ear was missing, making it easy to identify. Still it was a majestic thing, long and lanky, with ruddy colored fur all over its body with a dark saddle.

He was exhausted from his days of shallow sleep, and his lids drooped shut, despite the danger. He dozed for a short while.

The snap of twigs and crunch of old leaves heralded his captor's return. Grey's eyes opened, and he could see the wolf's large ears prick upwards as it investigated the source of the sound, and dart away. His lids drooped again.

When they opened the second time, Waiting Raven was standing in front of him with a somber expression on his face. He vaguely looked like Manoke in this light, only Manoke had softer features and thicker bones. Waiting Raven was tall, with more dainty bones. He was muscular and yet still lanky, with an almost feminine figure.

The crescent moon shone on his thick, straight hair and gave it a silvery sheen. Grey could see a flask was gripped lightly in his hands, and he gently swayed in his intoxicated state. Grey's throat was parched, and he longed for the flask.

A pattern had emerged over the course of the few days; Waiting Raven would arrive at night, alone, with water and food. The food was never enough, but the water was plentiful. His stomach grumbled at the thought of eating.

"No food today." He said, hearing the grumble in the fairer man's belly.

The dark man's eyes darted past his captive and peered into the darkness of the forest behind him, then he looked to the left, then the right. He exhaled, licked his lips, then crouched next to his captive. Grey noticed that along with being intoxicated, The Indian was nervous. The man's body was trembling slightly. Nervous of what, he didn't know.

Waiting Raven removed his moccasins first. Then he folded his fingers around the top of his trousers, and yanked them down past his ankles and threw them a few feet behind him in one fluid, quick motion.

Grey instinctively bent his knees and lifted them to his chest in defense. It was a futile attempt to prevent what he assumed was the theft of his clothing. But now with his trousers gone, his legs were all he had to cover his nakedness. The Indian wrinkled his nose at the offensive smell.

_What did you expect?_ Grey wanted to say, but kept silent. The moonlight was reflecting off a knife strapped to Waiting Raven's thigh. He was wide awake now, and painfully aware of his precarious predicament. His heart began to race. Waiting Raven unsheathed his knife and pointed the blade to his captive's belly. Grey sucked in his stomach and began to tremble himself.

He watched as the Indian cut the leather top off him and threw that behind him as well. To merely slip the shirt over his head would mean untying him, and the Indian was uninterested in a fight. The knife was sheathed.

He swiped away the soiled earth beneath Grey, creating a clean resting place. He crept on his knees beside the pale and frightened man, without saying a word, and poured some of the remaining contents of the flask down his arm to clean himself.

Then he grabbed his flask and splashed it across Grey's body, then shoved the nozzle into his mouth. Grey gagged as the strong scented liquid spashed across his body and flooded his mouth. He had expected water, but got something else. _Good god, was that whiskey?_

Waiting Raven began to rub the liquid across his stomach in circles, washing off dirt and stench.

Grey had lost weight since his capture, and the contours of his abs could be seen in the light of the moon. It was the first time he had seen his body in days, and he was made curious at its rapid changes.

More whisky was shoved into his mouth and spread over his thighs and rubbed into his skin. The aromatic liquid spilled from the sides of his mouth and he caughed, swallowing hard against its sting.

_Why would someone waste such an expensive luxury on bathing?_ He had known some women back in England to bathe in tea or milk, but it was an unheard of waste of resources for anyone than the upper class to divulge in such excess, and Waiting Raven did not strike him as a rich man.

_Soap would have been cheaper,_ Grey thought, _even water_. But he assumed Waiting Raven was making do with what was available, and no amount of pure water could erase the smell away as well as the whiskey was doing.

He must have found a buyer. Yes; that had to be it. He could probably fetch a better price if he was cleaned, and as dismal a thought of him being sold into slavery was, it had to be better than being tied to the tree, at the mercy of the elements and local fauna. At least he would have a chance at escaping if he were sold.

The Indian stopped his cleaning of Grey's body, the whiskey almost spent. He leaned back on his haunches, then curled his fingers in hesitation.

Grey thought he saw a streak of disgust in the red man's eyes, before a look of determination set into his face. A bizarre tremor of goosebumps echoed across his flesh and he froze, as if his body knew something his mind didn't. His already large eyes grew ever rounder, and there was electricity in the air.

He felt a large, broad hand run up the side of his thigh, then force his leg down. The other grabbed him in a most intimate place, that sent an electrical current through his body. He gasped in surprise and kicked out with his other leg, his foot colliding square into the man's chest. Waiting Raven fell backwards onto his elbows, then growled.

Grey bent his legs again, trying to shield his manhood from any further violation.

Waiting Raven recovered from the kick, knowing he would feel it later, and unsheathed his knife, cocked his head to the side, gave him a long serious stare, and raised his brows as if to say _'Care to rethink your decision?'._

His heart was in his throat. _Oh, Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ!_ The words repeated over and over._ I'm going to be raped, then killed._ Waiting Raven's head blocked out the bright white crescent in the sky as he crouched over him.

"I am wealthy," He said nervously. "You could ransom me. You could live comfortably with your wife for many years." He originally had made it a point not to reveal he had money, but given the circumstances he felt it more of a bargaining chip now than before, with the blade still unsheathed and reflecting light somewhere into the dark forest behind him.

**_"I don't want money!"_** He spat. He sneered at the prospect. Money! It was always about money with  
them. Nothing was worthwhile unless it had a monetary value on it! Well, most things valuable had its  
price.

He pushed Grey's leg back down, then rested his weight on it. Other things were too valuable for  
silver or gold. "_Don't kick_."

Grey was stiff-backed and stiff-cocked, but both were a response of his racing heart and renewed  
sense to fight. His heart was pounding away to the point he thought it would surely burst or stop  
from exhaustion. The knife tip pressed against his Adam's apple, and felt the tip penetrate the first few layers of his skin.

The strange hand returned and gripped his girth. It had a rhythm Grey was uncomfortably familiar with; it mirrored his own in placement and timing, whenever he found himself lonely deep in the night and without a lover.

Grey closed his eyes and tried to hide his face behind his arm. The pressure on his neck from the knife tip eased.

His thick stubble scratched against his shoulder, a reminder of his entrapment. He heard the wolf yip and yawl somewhere in the distance, and he focused on it as best he could. Its yips were high-pitched and musical, and he was thankful for what little distraction his mind could focus on. Anything was better than where he was right now.

And what felt like an eternity passed.

* * *

Waiting Raven was growing impatient. Just how hard could it be to satisfy another man? He didn't think it would be this difficult; he certainly never took this long. He was aware time had passed, but wasn't sure exactly how long. _Too_ long. The man needed help.

Of _course_ he would need help. He was tied to a tree; he wasn't in the mood or in the right company  
for the result he was looking for. He wrinkled his nose and stopped. He grabbed the leather flask and pried open Grey's mouth.

"Drink!" He slowly poured the last of its contents into his mouth, where Grey swallowed and coughed. He didn't fight the administration of the liquid. _Perhaps he was grateful for its numbing effect?_ Raven wondered. Once the flask was drained, it was discarded. A droplet of whiskey had landed on his face, and he wiped it off before returning to his chore.

He had heard others talk about a special place that men enjoyed. It certainly wasn't any place he bothered to explore himself. But men weren't too different from each other when it came to the world of pleasure, and he was sure that if it worked on a red man, it would work on a white one, too. And this one was going to need persuasion.

Waiting Raven's nostrils flared for a second at the thought, resisting an instinctive recoil, and he swallowed hard. How other men could enjoy this was beyond him. He didn't want to do this; but it was now or never. He reached downward to that special place and pressed. Grey arched in shock. Raven leaned against Grey's movement and pinned his knees to his chest with his weight to prevent further struggle.

"The sooner you finish," He said coolly, "The sooner I leave." He abandoned the knife and wrapped his fingers around his neck, and began to squeeze.

Grey's head began to swim from whiskey and lack of air. He tried to tilt his head back to breathe, but felt the other man's grip tighten. The pressure in his head and crutch began to build. He grit his teeth and made the mistake of opening his eyes. He saw what could only be described as disgust in the other man's eyes.

_Why? Why was he doing this if he didn't want to?_ He felt his lungs begin to flutter, and he tried to shake back and forth to break free of Raven's grasp. A fuzzy, almost sparkling darkness was descending on him. Racing behind the inevitable unconsciousness was a current of not quite pleasure, not quite pain. It outran the darkness and enveloped him in powerful, echoing waves of pressure, and Raven's hands slid from his body like a receding tidal wave.

He gasped, his chest expanding as he breathed in deeply. The sparks in his vision faded, and he could see the moon brighten overhead.

Heavy lidded, he watched Raven cradle something in his hand, cupped close to his chest, as if holding a small animal or chick. The man's lips twisted into a satisfied smile, and he walked away.

And Grey was alone.

A cricket had begun to sing somewhere in the clearing.

_Oh, god._ He lay completely inert. _I'm alive._ He exhaled slowly, exhausted from the lack of sleep, whiskey, fear, and one-sided fight. He closed his eyes. He had fought the darkness just moments ago. Now he couldn't wait for it to claim him.

_I am so tired._

* * *

He had run the entire distance between his captive and Rabid Fox, and hadn't broken a sweat. If he was anything, he was good at distance running, and the mile between only felt like minutes, because it literally was.

When he came to her she was sleeping, relaxed and warm by the dying fire. He loved watching her sleep; It was the one time she looked the most peaceful. At times he could reach out and stroke a lock of her hair, or hover his hand across her face lovingly without disturbing her.

He glanced about, noting very few were awake at this hour, and felt satisfied. He liked the privacy of being on the camp's perimeter, but since the Imposter came, he had to suffer the eyes of nearly everyone in the camp. It made making love to her impossible and undesirable, and he didn't want to subject her to more prying eyes than necessary. But this late at night he would have to sacrifice privacy for the sake of their future.

He brushed his breech clout aside, and looking into his gently cupped hand, whispered a prayer that it would work. _It had to; why else would The Trickster give the idea to me? Had I not prayed enough?_ He  
gently spread it across his tip. It is from my cock._ Now it__** is**__ mine._

Yes, it was a lie. A trick. It wouldn't have come from a Trickster otherwise. He knew worshiping or asking help from one was foolish, but he was desperate. And he would provide as a husband should, and improvise where he fell short. The reward of someone to love and care for, and be loved and cared for in return, was worth the risk of attracting notice from mischievious gods.

He felt her eyes bore into him, and he shifted. He had unintentionally woken her early, and hoped she hadn't watched him pray. If she had, she said nothing.

"I'll be gentle," He cooed. He didn't try to kiss her this time, and kept a safe distance from her straight, white teeth. "Very gentle."

She never made eye contact with him, instead focusing on the roots of a tree. She was tired of fighting and tired of bruises. She knew he yearned for the closeness she shared with only Roger, and she refused to give it to him.

He was different than Bonnet. The pirate was dominating and took what he wanted; to him Brianna was a Good Fuck. Waiting Raven was lonely and thought he loved her, and tried to make love to her.

Brianna knew better, and knew the difference between passion and love. Waiting Raven was passionate about her, and passionate love was too closely related to passionate hatred, and if she wasn't careful, the scales could tip the other direction.

She could see her parents were asleep; all the better they not see, she thought.

"It will be different now." He whispered to her, then tugged at a lock of her red hair. He wondered if only once would be enough? Should he sell the Imposter now, or wait and try again? He didn't want his thoughts of the man cloud his moment with Rabid Fox and dismissed them. He would deal with the pale man later. He smiled warmly at her. "I will make you happy."

"Rot in hell."

* * *

For the last three days, Roger had wondered why his rescuer came alone. Now he knew: he had been to numerous towns to plead his case to every constable willing to listen to him, and every one replied in virtually the same manner. Attacking an Indian camp could attract unwanted attention and cause casualties. They couldn't justify the safety of their men for three people.

Now he faced the possibility of doing the same thing: Create a diversion, sneak in, and rescue them himself. His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he weighed his severely limited options in rescuing his family. He thought he could simply buy them back, but no one had the kind of money the tribe was asking for.

So he continued his desperate search for anyone willing to help or donate to his cause. He did what he could where he could; but came up far too short in money and ideas. It left him feeling helpless, and the quiet nights spent in the absence of his wife's body next to him grew ever longer and ate at his soul. Jem cried nightly for his mother, and each day that passed Roger wondered if he would ever get her back.

_Don't lose hope,_ he would tell himself. _Don't give up._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Strength**

Waiting Raven returned to the Englishman in the early morning, when the sun hadn't yet risen above the treetops. The air was cool with a brisk bite when the wind gently blew. He bent to his knees and leaned forward, inspecting the fingerprint bruises on Grey's neck. They looked like light blue mottling, shallow, and he knew they would be quick to heal. He nodded to himself, happy there was little damning evidence of his late night attack.

Grey didn't immediately make eye contact with his captor; he never had the opportunity to see his first rapist, who had taken him forcefully behind a wagon after Culloden, during the Bad Time. He eventually had to accept he would never know who it was, and with time the fantasy of delivering justice - or was it vengeance? - faded with his acceptance of what had happened.

But this time was different. His rapist was here, in the flesh, inspecting his injuries and offering water and food. He was very hungry and thirsty, and he felt grateful for the essentials Waiting Raven was offering. It made him sick.

It was no less shameful, but there was a new opportunity to face his predator, to look him in the eyes and say wordlessly, _you didn't win_. Could he pass up something that he had never had the freedom to do the first time, nearly twenty-five years previous? Could he take the food offered? He swallowed his fear first. Yes, he would have to accept the food and water if he wanted to live. But he didn't have to feel grateful, he told himself. Why should he?

He mustered enough bravery to broaden his shoulders and look Waiting Raven in the eye. As he looked into the red man's deep brown eyes, his fear vanished. It had mutated, into a defiant anger and loathing hatred, and the outside reflected what he felt inside. It made Waiting Raven lean back with wariness. Had Grey's stomach not been empty, he would have thrown up. For the hatred that he felt right now poured out of his body in an invisible, intangible muck. It felt like bog mud pouring from his skin and coating everything nearby.

Waiting Raven quite suddenly felt dirty, as if a slimy grit had been flung onto him. He saw pain in the other man's eyes, and fear, and a whole lot of anger. He felt a pang of guilt settle over him along with the invisible ick, and he shifted his shoulders and suppressed a frown. He acknowledged it was a terrible thing he had done to the other man, but justified it by telling himself it was necessary for Rabid Fox's future with him. Besides, the pale skin dressed like his people, trespassed, set fire to the camp - never mind he hated that place - and had tried to take Rabid Fox away from him. Waiting Raven figured he deserved what he got. And Grey's eyes never broke contact.

"You tried to take my wife from me," Waiting Raven explained, "You should repay me the dishonor."

Grey caught the word_ repay_, as opposed to its past-tense version, and reasoned Waiting Raven intended to continue the inhuman treatment.

"No, I did not and daresay I should not either." Grey replied curtly, not accepting his reasoning. Devil take getting beaten, he didn't care. He clearly remembered the disgust in Waiting Raven's eyes when he took him the night earlier. "This isn't about honor anyway, is it?" This wasn't about honor, or control or even desperation for that matter, but god only knew what it really was about. He didn't suppose the man would tell him, anyway.

Waiting Raven's eyes narrowed, and his lip curled to reveal pristine clenched teeth. _How astute of you to recognize that,_ he wanted to say, but didn't have the English words to express it. "Drink."

He put the flask to Grey's mouth, who hesitated at first, then began to drink, greedily. Waiting Raven felt the cool, clear water dribble across his knuckles, and waited patiently until the flask was emptied. Grey gasped for air when he finished and closed his eyes, feeling the coolness in his core spread internally across his entire body.

"You need good food." Waiting Raven then reached into a leather sack he had brought with him. He pulled out a round object. It was large in his hand and wrapped in thin leather. He unwrapped it to reveal a rare-cooked, healthy-sized portion of steak. He lifted it to his mouth. Grey ate it quickly, chewing little and swallowing large bites to the point he almost choked. He reminded himself of an alligator. He couldn't have looked gentlemanly, but didn't care.

The steak finished, the water flask emptied, Waiting Raven stood with his leather sack clutched in his hand. "I will feed you again, later." He turned to leave, paused and opened his mouth to say something, closed his mouth, shook his head, then left.

* * *

Fish was a dietary staple for the tribe, and it was the women's duty in this camp to gut and cook the fish. Though there were several who were assigned to the task, Jamie only ever talked to Minerva.

The others were too afraid of Vicious to ever reply to his small-time talk. At first, Jamie had only started small, petty conversations with her. But slowly the conversations became more complex, and Claire soon started noticing Native words slipping out of Jamie, to Minerva's delight.

He found Minerva was open and honest, and she liked to cook and also liked to experiment with spices. She offered him to taste her special concoctions, some good and some bad, and he would offer his opinions of them. It allowed Jamie to eat more and interact, and often Claire was left feeling jealous of his skill with languages.

After a few evenings spent conversing with the Indian woman, he learned that she was indeed half white; She had been the daughter of a pastor. and her mother died when she was very young. Her father had lost his faith as a result, and he drank often and beat her more so. He blamed her for the death of her mother. He explained to her that one day as a toddler she had wandered off, and her mother was bitten by a water moccasin while searching for her.

So the majority of her life had been spent thinking she was unworthy of love. Then one morning when she was 16, Minerva's eyes were opened by God, and she realized she deserved more than what her father taught her. She stole her father's only expensive possession - a broken Queen Anne with inlaid gold. It was originally her great-grandfather's, and the value was only in its precious metal. She set out West, where she met Waiting Raven along a wagon trail. He had come from Far West, he said, past the Big Waters and past where the mountains rose above the clouds, a Sacred Place he called _Giiwas_.

They traveled together, and she fell in love. She had originally intended to sell the pistol to help establish a new life with Waiting Raven, but decided to keep it for sentimental reasons - to remind herself of where she had come from and where she was headed.

But they soon found they weren't welcome in many towns for their dark skin, and eventually found the camp. They made a home for themselves within it in Mohawk territory, and every day they faced the possible threat of the Mohawk evicting them off their land as a best-case scenario and raiding them as the worst-case scenario.

But Waiting Raven hated it and wanted to leave, because it wasn't really a tribe at all - only rejected, exiled, or wanted men and women who clung to each other for survival. The tribe wasn't traditional by any means and found value in money, and Waiting Raven was a very traditional man. He felt the only way their people could survive was if they clung to their traditions, and Minerva felt they needed to adopt the white culture to survive. The difference in opinion was the first cleave of their fragile marriage, and later the lack of children was the final.

Jamie had never stated so, but he considered Minerva a potential ally, even if she was unaware of that status herself. If he could gain her respect, he figured, he may gain her husband's as well.

They were well-liked within the tribe and the Chief listened to them. They were reasonable. And they both considered Waiting Raven a nuisance.

Now, he peered across the cooking fire and struggled to see the clearly flustered Minerva, conversing with an uncomfortable looking Chief. He could see she pointed in the prisoner's general location, saw the chief nod in understanding, then she continued by sweeping her hand across her chest. Her face changed to what could only be described as pure disgust, wih her mouth moving too quickly for Jamie to even guess what she was complaining about. Whatever it was, he figured she was very passionate about it.

The chief raised a finger in a gesture of silence and glanced over to the prisoners. He put his finger to his nose in thought. She stopped and stood still, her shoulders squared. He said something then, having made his decision, and Minerva looked instantly relieved. She thanked him, and he nodded, receding back into his tent and out of the sun's heat. She walked away looking satisfied.

As she neared the cooking fire and pile of fresh fish to be gutted, she stole a glance toward Brianna momentarily, then to Jamie and Claire. She smiled then, and flashed a discreet wink at Vicious.

Jamie owl-blinked back at her in return, curious of the nature of her discussion but felt it best not to ask just yet.

She gutted the fish and sung to herself, long into the evening.

* * *

Contrary to common belief, bakeries were considered a blight in towns, regardless of its obvious usefulness and necessity.

The ovens had to burn hot to bake bread and took a long time to cool. As such, many town fires started from bakeries such as the one Roger was at, so due to their threat to town safety, they were almost always placed at the town's outskirts a safe distance away from other buildings.

A total of five days had passed since his escape, and after eating lightly for so long, Roger couldn't help but eyeing a freshly-baked loaf of bread when a very large and blond Irish-looking man approached him from behind.

"Ye're the one looking to rescue his wife, are ye not?" He asked in a deep base tone.

Roger jumped at first, startled, then straightened his shoulders. His turned around and his eyes darted to the right, making a mental note of Jem's current location near the scones before looking back to the intimidating fellow.

"I am." He answered.

"My sister was kidnapped. too." He explained with a nod of his head in the direction outside of town. "A year ago. Ye didna see her in the tribe, did ye? Blond lass with curls?"

Roger swallowed. He tried to summon all the faces of the people and captives he remembered seeing while in the camp. The faces flashed by like a photo book being quickly flipped through, but none fit that description.

"I didn't, no." He didn't need to say that she was likely sold a long time ago.

The Irish man was rubbing his hands together with a stone-faced expression. Off-white flour was thinly spread over them and dusted across his chest and pants.

He was the town baker, he realized. His sister likely shared in the business. The large man cocked his head to the side, sizing up the dark-haired man. Roger felt slightly intimidated by his size and resisted the urge to back away.

"I had to ask." He didn't look too disappointed in Roger's answer, and he realized grimly that this man had come to expect this answer. "Sold, nay doubt. I wonder if I will ever see her again." He sighed.

He stiffened suddenly, remembering his manners. He extended his hand in greeting.

"The name is Nick Zaford. Do ye have a plan to free your wife or should I tell ye mine?"


End file.
